


Sanctuary

by MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Teenagers in a Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: Henry sneaks through your window and joins you in bed, waking you up.





	Sanctuary

You don’t hear the window sliding open, don’t hear him climb in or close it or kick his shoes off, but you do  _ feel _ him sliding into your bed behind you.  He smells like cigarettes and alcohol, night air and sweat and blood, and his hands are ice cold as he slides one over your side to your stomach and the other under your neck, past your shoulder.  You shiver and push yourself back into his chest, and he hisses briefly before he nuzzles his face into the back of your neck. The tip of his nose is cold, but his lips and breath are hot, soft on your skin as his mouth opens to sigh.

“Did he hit you again?” you ask softly, a gentle whisper that still feels somehow too loud for this quiet moment where you’re afraid to roll over and look at Henry’s face, afraid to see if there’s bruises, a black eye, a split lip.  It’s not the blood that makes you feel sick, it’s the hopeless emptiness in Henry’s face when he can’t look at you, the question of  _ why doesn’t my father love me? _ hanging heavy in the air around him.  

Butch Bowers calls him a coward, but watching Henry walk back into the hell he calls home is probably the bravest thing you’ve ever seen anyone do.

“Nah, just wanted to see my girl,” Henry says with warm nonchalance, but his tone is hollow, forced, and you take a breath before you roll over.  You’re careful as you do it, notice that he hasn’t pulled you any closer despite the arm draped over your waist, catch the the way he winces as you turn.  You settle, holding your breath as you look into his shadowed face. 

He’s smiling, but it’s rigid, frozen, something vicious looking he put there to make it look like his split lip doesn’t hurt.  His teeth are outlined in black blood that he hasn’t licked away yet, and there’s a bruise starting to darken his cheek and jaw, too big to be ignored.  Your breath is soft and shallow as you reach up to touch the part of his bottom lip that isn’t bleeding, your fingertip so light that it feels like you’re barely touching him.  His deadly grin fades away into something soft and searching, something lost as he looks past your face to the wall.

“Stay with me tonight?” you say lightly, but your hand has drifted to his jaw, to his neck, to his shoulder, his arm and then he flinches.  You wonder if his father grabbed him or hit him or shoved him into a wall, brush your hand over his side to check for more injuries there. He flinches again, then firmly takes your wrist and pulls it back up to his neck.  You comb your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, and he hums with satisfaction.

“What, you think I climbed up here just to kiss you goodnight?” he responds with mock offense that he softens by leaning in to nudge his nose against yours, his lips so close that you could kiss him if you only tilted your head a little.

“You haven’t kissed me goodnight  _ yet _ ,” you say before you kiss him, your lips meeting his in a tender, lingering kiss that’s worlds away from the kisses you usually share with him.  At school, he’s constantly pushing you up against the wall, the lockers, into closets or bathrooms, any place where he can pin you, rub against you, kiss you in that way that’s needy and possessive and staking ownership all at once.  

This kiss, like all kisses that happen in your bedroom, isn’t weighted with the pressure to claim you or to prove that he’s a man, that he has energy, that he’s desirable.  In your bedroom, they’re about comfort, about telling him that he’ll be okay, that you don’t think less of him for being hurt. They’re about telling you that he trusts you, that he loves you the way he never thought he’d love anyone except his mom.

You both sigh when you pull away, and then you stare at the line of his jaw where the bruise is darkening, idly rubbing your fingertips against the center of his chest through the shirt he’s wearing.  Under the fabric, he’s whiplash lean, all sleek muscle drawn tight over his bones, skin still colored from spending all last summer under the sun. You hadn’t been friends then or whatever it is that you are now which feels like something more than friends and more than boyfriend and girlfriend.  Here and now, you have the not-so-distant memory of him stretched out on your bed under you, shirt off, languid with late spring heat. 

You sigh, loudly and theatrically when Henry takes your hand from his chest and guides it lower, smirking, and then wincing when it splits his lip again.  You leave your hand cupped around his half-hard cock, smiling wryly when you say, “Just because I’m awake doesn’t mean you  _ have _ to come onto me.”

“You don’t want to get me off?” Henry asks, his voice lazy, but he doesn’t mean it because he hasn’t rolled onto his back the way he does when he’s serious.  You lean in to kiss him, your hand finding his so you can lace your fingers through his. He tilts towards you, the arm under your neck wrapping up and over your head so he can cradle your head in the crook of his elbow.  You can feel the rest of his body starting to relax, the tension that’s always present melting away now that there’s no one to see, no one to judge, no one to hurt him.

You wriggle closer, and he untangles his fingers from yours and drapes his arm over your waist, hand sliding under your shirt to rest against your bare skin.  It’s still cold, and you shiver and press closer to his chest, wanting more of his heat. He throws one jean covered leg over yours, anchoring you to the bed, making it impossible for you to move away from him without waking him up.  You kiss him again, a soft brush of your lips against his, too soft to disturb the split in his lip because he’s experienced enough pain for today. 

“Night, Henry,” you whisper, and you feel more than see the sleepy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Nigh’, babe,” he murmurs back, thumb stroking the skin of your lower back.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little dabbling in the IT Bowers Gang! I have a lot of feelings about Henry as a repeatedly traumatized and consistently abused child and this is just one tiny outlet for those feelings. We may see more Henry in the future, or maybe not, we'll have to see. 
> 
> In the meantime, you can come and find me on tumblr at [magpieminx.](https://magpieminx.tumblr.com)


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